Perspectives
by virtualailee
Summary: Breathing was painful, Tony realised. But all he cared about right now was the indignity of having to take Steve's harsh criticism for making the right call. He propped himself up on one elbow. "You think I don't care?" A three-part story that explores the conflicting principles of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, with enough Tony!whump for extra drama.
1. Chapter 1

"If I waited a minute longer, people would've died, Rogers!"

Tony deflected Steve's punch and pushed perhaps harder than he intended to. Steve staggered but regained his balance quickly enough, angry glare in place. Tony launched himself again, going on the offensive this time as Steve blocked incoming blows with his forearms. They were at the gym, training. It started one fine evening when Steve caught Tony blending fruits for a smoothie and had casually asked for a spar. To his surprise Tony said simply, "Sure, why not?" But it did not end there; when Tony wanted a break from his tinkering he would invite Steve down to the gym. There were punches and bodies thrown around but nothing really serious, like aim-to-maim serious. This time felt different. A little bit _heated_ , if Tony could say so as he panted in between rapid jabs and kicks.

For two weeks now, the Avengers had taken residence up on the Helicarrier. It sort of _just happened_ , considering that Tony brought only an extra shirt with him, expecting this to be a short visit – two days tops. Fury wanted to officially introduce him to the rest of the people he was supposed to play nice with. Meetings with Earth's mightiest heroes? How thrilling. His escort missed the eye-roll when a phone call came through. It sounded like the agent on the other end had just secured one Dr Bruce Banner. Tony casually asked if he knew who the rest of the ensemble were.

"You'll see, Mr Stark."

When he entered the meeting room, the dull murmurs among the attendance died instantly. All eyes were on him and he felt somewhat out of place, and that was saying something. He spotted Dr Banner at the far end of the room skulking in a corner. A figure shifted slightly to his right and Tony turned. Ah, Captain America himself, the man out of time.

"Mr Stark," Steve greeted.

"Cap."

Steve's piercing blue eyes were fixed on him. Tony saw _something_ stirred behind them, almost like a glimmer of familiarity but decided not to dwell on it. When the world was shaken with the news of Captain America (in suspended animation) on the way home from the Artic, Tony shared the people's elation. He knew about the discovery much earlier though; Phil had called from one of SHIELD's quarters when Steve, still encased in his coffin of ice, was being trawled up from the waters. And that was not the last he heard of the works. The fanboy he was, Phil updated Tony on Steve's progress _daily_ as if he would just combust if he could not share this euphoria with somebody. Eventually the wait was over and Steve woke up. Phil said he was fine, a bit disoriented but way calmer than they had anticipated and seemed to accept the fastforward-70-years-welcome-to-the-future fact amazingly well. Phil eventually asked if Tony would like to come down for a visit. It might be distressful for Steve, but for Tony he could pull some strings and see what he could do.

Tony declined the offer.

So this was truly the first time he was seeing Captain America in the flesh. Phil was not exaggerating; Steve looked perfect for a recently-thawed super soldier. No frostbites, nose still intact and all. When he realised that Steve was still watching him, he promptly pulled a chair and sat in it. It was still early, just slightly after two o'clock, and Tony was hoping Fury would quickly wrap up the meeting so he could go back to upgrading Iron Man's boots. But who was he kidding, of course SHIELD had detected peculiar electromagnetic signatures from different parts of the Earth and the Avengers were now on-call for potential threats.

Tony doubted how much a hastily put together team could achieve. He doubted they could even win a three-legged (seven-legged actually, but details…) race right now. Bruce called them a time bomb just waiting to explode. Very astute. Tony smirked and surveyed the rest of the Avengers. Natalie – well, Natasha, as it were – was the only familiar face in the room. See, she was Pepper's secretary – lady had an outstanding CV who also bested Happy at boxing – and then there was this little incident where she jabbed him in the neck with lithium dioxide and was actually a SHIELD agent all along. He quickly decided to un-know the Widow, and then stay at least a six feet away from her. He smiled at Bruce who was now trying to blend into the wall, and Bruce nervously returned it. This one was a bird of a feather. He had known Bruce from the articles, mostly the kind that publish works on medical genetics, but also the kind that say a big green thing just flattened Harlem. If he was in a better mood he would have been psyched about the God of Thunder gracing this meeting. Thor was sitting broodingly among them, the legendary Mjolnir leaning innocently against the table. The fourth member of the Avengers – also in-house killer archer if he understood Fury's intro correctly – Clint Barton was seated on Thor's immediate left, also projecting solemnity.

And then there was Cap. He used to worship the guy as a child, collected his posters and cards. Yet all there was to Steve was nothing more than a childhood superhero who somehow found his way to the present and inserted himself into Tony's life.

They were not a team. They barely knew each other.

The following day after breakfast, Tony was ready to drop the crazies and resume the normalcy of his life. It was Steve who reminded him that Fury did not say it was OK to leave. Naturally he replied, "Who cares, Fury doesn't always get what he wants," and he noted the muscle in Steve's jaw twitched. He left the kitchen but decided to stay on board for another day. Then he stayed for another, and another. Working here had its benefits; Bruce appreciated science on a similar level and Tony enjoyed his intellectual company. Before long, it was already his eighth day of this delightful staycation on the Helicarrier. Breakfast that day was uneventful when Natasha suddenly stiffened and pressed a hand to her left ear, appearing to be listening to something intently. When she was off the communicator, she turned to address the Avengers; SHIELD sensors had registered a major shift in gravitational forces in Boston and onlookers reported "distortions, like street lights and the side of buildings curving every few seconds." Bruce was on his feet the very next moment.

"We have to clear the area out. If space itself is distorted… we are not going to like what's coming out of it when it tears."

A fucking wormhole in the middle of a city at nine in the morning?

They arrived a little too late, however. Instead of a portal, there was a crater the size of a basketball court where a hotdog joint probably used to be; the signboard "Joe's Hot" was all that was left along with half-eaten hotdogs strewn around, almost as if tossed aside in favour of getting the hell away from these _things_ that were currently uprooting trees and smashing cars. Clint described them best – giant orang utan with tentacles. Or GOUT, to make it pronounceable. Steve swung around to face his team and started devising counter strategies. Tony was to herd them into a park two blocks down where Hulk and Thor would be waiting for a melee, no holds barred. Barton would have his eyes on the perimeter from fifteen-storey high, calling patterns and taking down potential ground enemies. Steve and Natasha were on crowd control duties.

It was all going smoothly until JARVIS alerted him of a rogue GOUT a short distance away from the pack. Tony's plate was full; ushering the GOUTs into one spot also meant having all their monster powers concentrated on the Hulk and Thor. He shot at them every few seconds to distract them when they got too close for comfort, and then flew out of reach when those blasted tentacles tried to swat him from the sky. A corner of his HUD blinked red; the rogue GOUT was in very close proximity to a school bus packed with twenty screaming children. He had JARVIS pull up the battle statistics of each Avenger, swiftly assess the likelihoods of combat fatalities, and then charged supersonic towards the opposite direction all in under ten seconds. This GOUT was different from the ones curb stomping in the park though; it was smaller, had a lighter tan to its hide and was pointing a glowing tentacle at the bus. Tony did not wait to find out what it was trying to do; he took aim and fired at it dead in the head.

Steve was unimpressed.

"What's your problem, really? The kids were saved and the portal was shut for good. I'm calling it a win!"

"It's your method that's the problem, Stark!"

Steve threw a punch which collided with the side of Tony's arm. The blow was harder than the one before, and Tony was starting to feel a blunt ache in his bones where Steve's hits had made contact. Steve was livid all right, his jaw was set and his brows were knitted. His next words came in low growls, obviously trying but failing to reign in anger, "Every time you pull macho stunts like that you put the team at risk. When you vacate your position in battle, the unit's plan becomes meaningless."

"What, I'm supposed to let the kids die?"

Tony charged forward again, hammering Steve with quick punches that were getting weaker as his knuckles throb against Steve's defences. Out of breath, Tony faltered in his steps, and Steve seized the opportunity; he swiped away Tony's incoming punch and arrested the wrist. With the upper body unguarded Steve snuck an open-palmed hit against Tony's side.

For a moment Tony was sure Steve was going to be kill him. With his wrists in a lock, he could not parry nor at least cushion the force; he took it full on and felt something snap inside him. His vision whited out and his knees gave way. In that split second Steve released him and Tony was not quite aware when he hit the ground.

"You were not on a solo mission. You were given an order, stick to it."

Tony cracked his eyelids open. Steve was standing over him, fuming, but had otherwise dropped his fighting stance. "This overconfidence of yours is going to cost us someday."

Breathing was painful, Tony realised. Steve seemed oblivious to the fact. Still the indignity of having to take harsh criticism for making the _right call_ was all he could think of. He propped himself up on one elbow. Ignoring the flaring agony in his side, he hissed, "You think I don't care?"

"Do you?"

Steve stalked off as Tony rolled back onto the floor. The door closed heavily behind Steve and Tony glared at the high ceiling, wondering how any of this crap was his fault.

The next morning was awkward. Tony was not looking forward to talking to the Avengers but coffee abstinent meant headache and Tony was dealing with enough misery already. He was dismayed to find everyone huddled around the lone island in the kitchen, silently appraising him. He limped past them, pretending not to see anyone at all and hunted for the coffee pot. Empty, of course. His side started throbbing and he froze, willing it to subside.

"Coffee jar is in the upper cabinet, second from the left."

Natasha took a sip from her steaming mug and regarded Tony suspiciously from above its rim. He muttered a quick thank you. From the tail of his eye he caught Steve watching him with an expression of either vague concern or curiosity. Tony ignored him and reached up, the stabbing ache becoming more persistent as he scrabbled for the coffee jar.

"You want a box to stand on?" Clint chuckled as he appeared out of nowhere and threw an arm over Tony's shoulders.

The sudden weight of Clint leaning into him knocked his balance off and he slumped against the counter. Cold sweat was starting to form and he knew he just had to get _away_. His eyes briefly met Steve's; there was a slight crumple in between his brows as he chewed absently at his toast.

"OK, fun time's over," he said hoarsely, waving Natasha away as she was about to speak. "I've got to get back to work. See you guys later."

And then he left as fast as he could, morning coffee be damned.

The rest of the Avengers traded questioning looks. Steve sighed, and he put his half-bitten toast down. "I'll go check on him."

When Steve exited the kitchen, Tony was already nowhere to be seen. The Helicarrier had a lab downstairs and he wondered if Tony was headed there. He took the left turn and then he saw him, a dark silhouette half-hunching over a water cooler. Steve closed their distance effortlessly but Tony did not seem to hear the approaching taps of Steve's SHIELD-issued military boots.

"Hey, you OK?" Steve called out.

He noticed how Tony seemed to go rigid for a split second before straightening up, a tight grin plastered over his pallid face.

"Cap! Just can't stay away, can you?"

The last two weeks they had gotten to know each other, Tony came across as a proud man. It translated to how he conduct himself around people, an ever lingering air of haughtiness which Steve find mildly off-putting. It did however remind him of Howard from those days. It was _annoying_ , but in a really strange sense just as comforting. Today though that arrogance was diminished as Tony wore a perpetual grimace and breathed too shallowly for comfort.

"Where does it hurt?" Steve asked. Tony waved his hand again, probably telling him to can it and mind his own business. It would have been more convincing if not for the passing wince when he pushed himself off the water cooler. Steve deftly caught Tony by the elbow and looped the arm over his own shoulders.

"No more games, Stark. We're going to the infirmary."

They hobbled down the corridor in silence. When Tony started to waver and Steve instinctively braced his waist, Tony groaned and had to take a full minute to collect himself. He shot Steve a glower he intended to look venomous, and if Steve's troubled expression was anything to go by, he knew he must be in a pretty bad shape.

Tony breathed a sigh in relief when he sniffed the strong whiff of antiseptic; medical was mere doors away. Steve lowered Tony down on an unoccupied gurney. The doctor on-duty only needed to see the awkward gait and the stiffness in how Tony was propping himself up. When he was told to remove his shirt, Tony became fully aware of Steve still standing in their immediate vicinity. His blue eyes were now brimming with guilt, and Tony figured playing evasive did not matter anymore. He gingerly unbuttoned his shirt. When they parted to reveal a large splotch of blue and green over the left side of his ribs, Steve grimaced visibly.

A nurse hustled him out of treatment room and drew the curtain around the gurney. Tony hoped Steve would take the hint and _leave_ , he had done enough – more, in fact – and Tony would like to nurse his ribs _alone_ in peace. There was the prodding and the probing and the thousand and one questions that followed and Tony either nodded, shook his head or shrugged indifferently. He knew he would be benched from future Avengers activities, at least for the next three weeks or so. He took the bottle of Ibuprofen the doc handed him and sighed. What would Steve do next? Would he ask Fury to put together a line-up of reserve superheroes? To replacecore Avengers if they were suddenly… _indisposed?_ The doc waved him off and Tony found himself shuffling tentatively to the exit. Steve was still waiting for him; he was pacing the waiting room. He looked up and asked, "What did the doctor say?"

Tony deliberated on his answer. He looked down at his chest and realised he skipped a button on his shirt.

"Seem to have cracked a couple of ribs."

"They look fresh. And we were not on duty lately."

"Look, Cap –"

"I did this, didn't I? At the gym."

"It's fine. I'm fine! I've been through worse, I promise you."

He flashed his trademark megawatt smile and patted Steve's arm. Then he turned on his heels and was soon gone.

After the GOUTs, SHIELD's radars had gone eerily quiet. Could be the calm before the storm, Clint had suggested darkly but as far as Steve was concerned, SHIELD had no more business keeping them here any longer than necessary. He thought of Tony mostly; now with extra-terrestrial threats subdued, he still had a company to run. But he knew Tony was on board since he had just used his ID to clear lab security at six this morning. Sometimes he went completely off the grid, only to have his presence reaffirmed from the occasional blips on the screen whenever he used his ID.

It took Tony four more days to be physically present at lunch. He was still in a dress shirt, so Steve figured either Tony had a penchant for them, or it still hurt too much to pull a T-shirt on. Tony was in a pretty good mood, probably the best for as long as Steve could recall since they came aboard. He joked, and then he engaged in deep discussion about quantum foam with Bruce, and then he joked some more. He even spared Steve a curt nod before he dug into his pie and listened to Bruce rapturously.

That night, Steve decided to turn in later than usual. Fury had asked for a brief meeting sometime after dinner. Steve appreciated the cut-to-the-chase-no-nonsense approach Fury was infamous for; he had asked if the Avengers Initiative was progressing as it should be, and if not, was the problem pronounced "STARK" and were they able to defend Earth as her mightiest heroes, right here, right now? Steve had replied yes, no and no which got Fury to raise his brows, but he did not press further and dismissed him on that note. As he walked to his assigned quarters, he recalled the most recent battle they partook as a team. Steve's confidence begun to depreciate. His mind flitted to Tony. He had the genius of his father before him and the insatiable inquisitiveness that ran in the family. But sometimes in the heat of the battle, there was no room for what's and why's, and certainly not two people calling the shots.

"Isn't is past bedtime for you?"

Steve looked up. Tony had a smirk playing on his lips. He was leaning against the doorframe, his posture relaxed. His dress shirt was crumpled and the top two button was undone, the soft glow of his arc reactor peeking from his collar. Tony looked like he had just crawled out of bed, only morning was several hours more to go.

"Can't sleep?" Steve asked instead.

Tony ran his hand through his hair and got himself a glass with water. He plopped into the vacant chair beside Steve and drank in silence. Although the kitchen light was dimmed, with Tony sitting this close, Steve could see traces of tremor raking his body. His breathing was shallow and the colour from his visage was gone.

"You're hurting again," Steve said. Tony looked at him sideways, his lips just hovering over the rim of his glass.

"It hurts to breathe sometimes," he replied tersely. He downed his water.

"You're supposed to be on pain meds. Don't they help?"

"They're supposed to."

"Right, and you're not taking them."

The bottom of the chair scrapped against the linoleum when Tony got up. "Nope."

Tony headed for the sink again. He leaned his waist against the counter. He was sure he heard the tinge of impatience in Steve's voice, and he shrugged, and made no offer for further explanation. Instead, he asked, "Barton said Fury summoned you this evening. What did he want?"

"He wanted to know if we're ready for the real deal."

"That so? Well, we're gonna need more way more firepower for starters."

"Yeah, but we can start by working with what we have right now. Ourselves, as a team." He looked pointedly at Tony. "You know we can't have a repeat of last week."

Tony let out a hollow chuckle. He put his glass down on the counter with more force than necessary. "Really, Cap? Well I'm not feeling up to beating the dead horse tonight."

He made to move away but Steve stood up and caught Tony firmly by the elbow. "You're one of the Avengers now. Part of a team. And as one unit we can't afford to have a member running loose on his own when there's a plan in place. You know what your action almost cost us that day?"

"Some twenty kids are going to have a chance living their lives?"

"At the expense of Natasha's?"

He had JARVIS feed him real-time statistics of every combatant on the field. He calculated the probabilities of the Avengers taking a hit from the GOUTs – negligible; Barton was already perched on a fifteen-storey office block, he had the altitude and the arrows to take over Tony's place. It would only take Hulk another smash or two to end them. The bus was not that far away from the park but every second counted, and he was the only one fast enough.

"You were ordered to distract them. When you took off, one of them turned to Natasha."

"These things are always unpredictable. That's why we invest in risk assessments. Probabilities! The numbers were clear, we had no problem taking any of them down in the park. I was the only flyer on the team and the kids stood absolutely no chance against the other one. I made the call."

"You could've alerted us. From his vantage point Barton would've had a clear shot."

"I won't risk it."

"You ignored a direct order."

"I did what had to be done!"

Tony was suddenly aware of Steve still holding his arm, so he pulled himself free and headed for the door. He heard Steve sigh but otherwise made no move to stop him. For the shortest of moment there Tony hesitated; he had been through his fair share amount of skirmishes and he understood no amount of foresight can accurately predict the final outcomes. His codes would have told him the twenty lives he saved was fair trade against Natasha's.

"We needed you," Steve said tiredly. "We trusted you to be there, and when you were not, we were almost fighting blind."

Steve wanted him to trust the team. Didn't they read his files? He knew his judgements rarely sit well with others and he had never been able to completely surrender control. He sure was not going to start now. But the earnest look Steve was wearing right now? He was too young. He had not met an Obadiah Stane, had not had a dead beat dad, had not known how it was like to have his trust shattered and thrown back into his face. But Tony was not going to teach him all that.

"I'm not saying what you did back there was wrong, you did save twenty lives. But we got to keep the communications open, Stark. You just got to learn to lean on us a bit."

The edge of Tony's lip quirked slightly. He knew what was required of him, but that wasn't happening overnight. Then again he knew a quick fix – that was the engineer in him talking. He knew what he _could_ do in one overnight.

"It should be easy getting JARVIS loaded into our communicators. More input on all the ongoing stuff in battle. Quicker response time all around, you guys better make sure you can cope with the data JARVIS is gonna load on you."

Tony started rambling, he knew he should stop, and Steve looked amused. It was a wee bit unnerving. He really should get back to bed.

"Right. Good talk, that's enough excitement even for me. 'Night, Rogers."

"It's Steve."

Tony bid a hasty retreat from the kitchen, his ribs stinging, but he felt pretty good in spite of.


	2. Chapter 2

The ladies had been most kind! Really, to be so welcoming after all the Avengers had done to Manhattan – sorry, _for_ Manhattan. The little shawarma shop is all thrashed and they certainly didn't expect to find anyone there, but they did; two ladies in dusty shawls were doing minor clean-ups, sweeping the floor and recovering lost crockeries. Tony just strolled in and asked for a table to seat the six of them. What do you know, they happily obliged. The older one, the one who had crowfeet, pulled out the least damaged table from a corner and set it upright in a clear space – after Thor helped displace rubbles from it. The rest of the Avengers limped around hunting for chairs.

Even if they'd closed the portal and stopped the Chitauri from laying waste to the city, the battle, in a way, forged on as government agencies and NGOs deal with the aftermath. SHIELD was stretched so thin they probably turned invisible, because Tony hadn't seen a single Agent prowling the scene, aside from those menacing-looking ones tasked with guarding Loki and the sceptre. He thought it was Fury's favourite form of entertainment – racing everyone else to sites of calamities and conspiracies. Anyway, SHIELD sent a short message that they could only spare the manpower to recover the superheroes after they had taken care of the civilians and the Avengers were just too beaten up to be of any use anyway. Suddenly the shawarma garble sounded like a good idea.

Nobody felt like talking it seemed, even Tony munched broodingly in silence. He had to pull a fragment of porcelain between the bread and that was about the most interesting event at their after-battle "party". He was tired, he didn't feel like making a joke about it. Nobody looked like they were in the mood for a joke either, but sullen as they were, at least everyone was in one piece. No ICUs needed this time around, excellent. Sure everybody had taken some hits, some maybe more, but still, no casualties. Tony took another bite.

Steve had his head propped as he dozed on, his shawarma still warm in the paper wrapping. Maybe not entirely asleep, Tony suspected, as every five minutes or so he'd suddenly jerk awake and look around at the table, as if making sure all six of them were still here, that this moment was real. He had his free hand wrapped suspiciously around his left side. There wasn't blood or intestines spilling out, thank God, and Tony hadn't asked, but going by the scorch mark on the uniform Steve probably tanked a blast from those alien guns. Thor definitely had been stabbed by _something_ on his shoulder; Tony could see dried up bloodstains on the armour but the red cape hid the wound well. The others seemed to fare better – clothes intact, no visible traumas. Good. Very good indeed.

Tony balled his shawarma wrapping and tossed it aside.

Somebody's cell phone rang – Natasha's apparently. As she attended to her call, the rest of the Avengers stirred sluggishly from torpor. Steve's bleary eyes darted all over the places again.

"Cap, you all right?" Tony asked from across the table. Thor turned to regard Steve, his regal eyebrows tightened in a worry frown.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Yes, Thor, I'm OK. I was… I'm just making sure everyone's all right too."

"Well it's been a long day. Now that we're all fed and watered, let's just turn in and not get up for the next eighteen hours."

"Hill is sending down a Rover to pick us up," Natasha said as she slipped her phone in her back pocket. "They can only spare us one with all the evacs and crowd controls going on in other parts of the city."

Bruce stood up. "Yes, yes, we understand. Uh, it's going to be a tight squeeze but I have my own ride, so…"

"And I shall have to return to my brother," Thor said, his cape sweeping the ground as he turned to the exit. "I believe we have much to talk about. This is where I leave you, courageous friends. For the time being at least. I shall contact you again before we leave for Asgard." He beheld them with a twinkle in his eyes, but lingered on Steve. "Heal," and he regarded everyone again, "and rest well."

They felt a shred of mortal frailty in the wake of Thor leaving the eatery. Fatigue slammed into each of them twice as hard and suddenly, they just wanted to go home.

Steve shifted on his feet. "Fury isn't calling for a debriefing?"

"Not today. SHIELD's calling in favours from all over the place to help out with the clean-up and he's going to be on-site in twenty minutes. What's most urgent is the sceptre and Loki, but Thor and reinforcement are taking care of that. So anything else will have to wait."

Bruce left almost immediately after Thor. When the Rover arrived, the remainder of the Avengers hobbled one after another into it. Natasha took the front seat and started speaking in quiet voices to the driver – another Agent, Tony supposed. He and Steve slid into the last row, behind Clint who promptly reclined completely across the length of the car.

Steve seemed oddly tense. He was still cradling his side and now starting to sport a constant grimace on his face.

Tony nudged Steve with his knee.

"What?"

"Do you need the hospital?"

Steve groaned. He let his hand fall to the seat and studied the wound with disinterest; except there wasn't anything there but a faint trail of blood and scabs. Tony whistled.

"I need one of those serum."

Steve threw his head back against the headrest. "No, you don't."

"It doesn't look that bad. Give yourself half an hour, bet you can go another round with them Chitauri sons-of-bitches."

"Still hurts like hell… this is taking longer than usual."

"Sure your healing's not as fast as Logan's, but –"

"You boys at the back," Natasha called out; she was looking at them from the rear-view mirror. "Where do you want me to drop you?"

Steve deliberated. He knew _exactly_ where he wanted to be, but Tony suspected he didn't quite want anyone else to know where it is. Hesitantly he said, "Brooklyn Heights, 569 Leaman Place, if it's not too inconvenient for you."

She quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn't question further.

"Stark Tower please, and I think you just missed the turn there."

"What? You're not going back?"

"It's got my name on it, in case you missed that too, and I got stuff to get back doing."

Natasha turned back, this time fixing Tony with her stare albeit a mellowed version of the murderous-Widow-intent. "Tony, the top floor is nothing but rubbles. We don't know if the Tower sustained other damages, water and power supply is down – don't look at me like that – and there isn't going to be anyone around the place until the emergency call is lifted. And I don't think you should be left alone either, at least not today."

Tony couldn't win this one, not when Natasha used her this-is-final tone. So he turned to Steve instead. "Cap, come on. Say something."

Steve gave him an almost apologetic half-smile. "Natasha is right."

"Right. Fine, at least let me get my suit and be on my merry way to Malibu."

"That's not gonna happen too. Look, I have space for another."

And a beat of incredulity.

"Really? Share a bunk with Captain America?"

"You're taking the couch."

Steve's brick red apartment was tucked in a quiet, low profile neighbourhood. After Natasha waved them goodbye and they were alone on the curb, Steve caught Tony appraising the block with a scowl on his face. When he realised Steve was watching him, and that it wasn't polite to judge a home that was offered to him on good will, he cleared his throat.

"Nice place."

"Yeah. It's not a mansion or a tower, but it's clean and cosy."

It was only a matter of time before Steve question if a born-with-a-silver-spoon-Stark was going to get comfortable in a second-rate accommodation like this. Tony admitted he was many things, not all of them nice, but most definitely not pampered.

"No Steve, I don't mean it like that. I was just wondering – you know, if we're gonna have to climb the stairs all the way up to your place, I don't suppose there's an elevator? Or maybe you're staying on the first floor?" Tony sounded somewhat hopeful.

"No, not the first floor. Feeling sleepy already, old man?"

"Says the centenarian." Tony shrugged past Steve and walked moodily towards the entrance. Steve sighed and followed.

The stairway was brightly lit by natural sunlight. High windows with spotless panes and sheer drapes flapping gently with the rhythm of early evening breeze. There were little pots of well-taken-care-of cacti and aloe vera on the sills. Some watercolour paintings were hanging on the wall – no Pollock of Van Gogh but Tony still find them strangely fascinating. He wasn't sure if he'd been anywhere homelier.

"Sometimes I like to take some time off for myself. From SHIELD. From…" Steve gestured vaguely to his surrounding, failing to find the words but Tony figured he understood anyway. "Sam found this place on sale. I didn't think long, I said yes and two weeks later I was ready to move in. Home's home, you know." Then he smiled gently, seemingly more to himself than anything. "I hope you don't mind, the hall's a bit cluttered. I left a couple of paintings to dry by the window when, well, Loki happened. I actually have a spare room, but there's no bed in there. I guess I can shift the couch in." Then he realised Tony was no longer beside him.

The billionaire was half a flight of stairs behind, leaning heavily against the wall. Steve was by his side in an instant, holding him up for support. Tony waved him off dismissively.

"It's fine, it's gonna pass soon. Give me a minute."

"I'm calling for help."

"What? No, don't." Tony grabbed Steve tightly by his shoulder, taking in deep gulps of air in deliberately slow rhythms. His irises were dilated and he had an off-coloured complexion under a thin sheen of cold sweat. Steve was going to call for an ambulance anyway when Tony clapped him twice on his back.

"OK," he said shakily, "OK. I'm good. See, just a minute."

He took another step up, and another.

"Which floor is it again?"

"Fourth."

Tony nodded and continued his climb. Somehow Steve wasn't the least relieved.

When the door to Steve's humble abode swung open, the first thing that hit them was the whiff of turpentine. In a few long strides Steve reached to a window facing the front of the apartment and opened it, letting in fresh air. The house had a certain stillness to it, like a house abandoned. Tony made a mental note to build a Dum-E 2.0 or something to keep Steve company because coming home to an empty place sounded a bit sad. It could even help open the window every morning because that smell of concentrated turpentine? If not for the serum, it's just cancer waiting to happen. Well maybe not, but it'll be a good ploy to use to convince Steve to let Dum-E 2.0 stay.

Steve leaned his shield against the wall by the bookcase. "All right. What would you like, tea? Coffee? Not sure if the orange juice has expired –"

"I'm good, thanks," Tony replied as he sunk appreciatively into the beige couch. He leaned into his seat, firm yet oddly comforting against his weary muscles, and he let his eyes slid close. He got an impression Steve was standing right in front on him, studying him from one end to the other, and if he wasn't feeling this crappy he would've kicked Steve in the knee and told him to bugger off. After sometime Steve finally moved; he was gathering his paintings from the other corner of the room and clearing his aisles. Tony might have drifted off for a while – he wasn't sure – because the next time he became aware of his surroundings there was no more shuffling of canvas in the background.

Steve was sitting across him holding two glasses of water.

"Hey," he said, extending one to him.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before accepting his water. He was starting to feel the aches all over his body, and suddenly he didn't feel like leaving the couch for the next 24 hours.

"You OK?"

"Adrenaline's running out," Tony admitted. "Feel like a bus just ran over me."

Steve pressed a small zip-lock bag into his free hand. Tony flipped it back, reading the label.

"Advil? Seriously?"

"I'm not sure if it's gonna work. I mean I obviously don't use it, but Bernie says it might help."

"Who's Bernie?"

"She's a neighbour."

Tony raised an eyebrow. Steve merely shrugged. "She's a nice young lady. A fantastic artist too; she blows glass."

Tony choked on his water, some of it spluttered down his front. Ignoring the goldenopportunity for a punch line, he popped two tablets and swallowed them.

"I think general anaesthesia works better at this point… still, thanks. And how's your papercut doing?"

Steve had changed out of his uniform. Aside from the small bruise on his temple (Tony bet it was going to disappear completely before sunrise) Steve didn't look like he'd just gotten out of battle.

"Completely healed."

Tony snorted in mocked jealousy. Steve laughed, a pleasant ring that broke the quiet of the room. Tony realised that the table lamps were on, and so were a few ceiling lights by the hallway leading to the bedroom. He turned to the window and saw it was dark.

"How long was I out?"

"Half a day. I didn't want to disturb you, and you obviously look like you needed the rest –"

"Pepper. I got to call her, tell her everything's OK. Oh crap," Tony's phone now lay in his palm in two pieces. "Must've crashed it in the fight. Steve, I need to borrow your phone, or your computer – you have one of those right? I got you both for Christmas or something –"

"Tony," Steve said, his head tilted at an angle to catch Tony's wavering focus. "Tony, calm down. Pepper called Natasha, and she called me after. I told her you're fine. She didn't want me to wake you up but she said she's flying back as soon as she can. Apparently aliens are bad for business, she's trying to convince stakeholders that these threats are not… going to have lasting impact on the company."

"You mean she's telling people who want us to start making weapons again to get lost."

Steve set his empty glass on the floor. "Yes. Anyway, I've made some spaghetti for dinner. You hungry?"

Tony contemplated the offer. He was exhausted beyond belief, sleepy, sore all over, most definitely sweaty and smelly; all rolled into one giant ball of numbness.

"Not really."

So there, somehow he got the tone of finality down that'd make even Natasha proud. He imagined Steve shrugging, going "Your loss" and proceeded to chow down his share as well. But there Steve was, good ol' Steve, sitting there refusing to go away until he was certain that Tony was truly fine.

"What did you see really? Up there."

Tony cast his attention towards the ceilings, watched the fan spin. It seemed so surreal he'd just been to space this afternoon.

"A bunch of aliens and their ships. Like in _Serenity,_ damn Chitauri look like an army of Reavers."

Steve didn't look like he believe the answer. Tony was quite sure he meant to ask something else, something like, was it beautiful?

Was it frightening?

 _Breathtakingly beautiful,_ Tony found himself answering regardless. Not exactly to Steve of course, but yes, he knew in the cloudy recesses of his mind as the inside of the suit was getting hypoxic, that in the vacuum of space, where in nothingness there were still twinkling stardust, and gaseous nebula, and possibly glimpses of galaxies he never knew of – yes, they were breathtakingly beautiful. And from the adulation for all things he did not understand, he found a gnawing, unsettling fear, germinating from his vulnerabilities, from his _impotence_. Today he mailed a nuke to the Chitauri's door. Circumstances could be reversed. One of the stars could well be an alien bomb homing right to Houston. How many more Earth-resemblance in one of those gas clouds he see?

But in space, all Tony could do as unconsciousness claimed him, was watch as gravity pulled him back to Manhattan.

"Whatever it was, glad it was all over," Steve finally said, clasping his knees. "Let me know when you want to eat."

"Steve," Tony caught him by the elbow as he was getting up. "Look, I would do it myself if I could, but can you help me shift the couch into your spare room?"

"Oh, who's the centenarian now?"

"Yeah. I don't know, I guess the fall took a heavier toll on me than I'd expected."

Tony wasn't going to lie; he knew he was already living on borrowed time the moment he flew through the wormhole. Oxygen was gone (his suit wasn't equipped with a tank), and JARVIS couldn't compensate the drastic change in exterior pressure, temperature and radiation exposures. He was ready to die. And the Avengers must've realised that too. Steve definitely did. That moment Tony understood that someone just got to lay on the wire. Tony _wanted_ to, and Steve respected that.

"You know what? You take the bed. I'll have the hall tonight."

Tony didn't bite back with stupid one liner about chauvinists or the likes. He nodded and closed his eyes again, looking every bit battle worn like a warrior just fallen from the stars. Probably. It wasn't like Steve had prior experiences to compare to. If anything, his billionaire team mate seemed to be faring worse even after all the sleep. His eyes looked like they had trouble focusing half the time, and he didn't talk with as much vigour as he usually did. As Tony inhaled deeply – Steve saw his chest expanded, heard the whistle-y sound that accompanied it – a trickle of red flowed down from his nostril.

"Tony… you're bleeding."

He blinked once, not quite understanding what Steve was saying. Then he felt something hot run down his lips. He wiped at it absentmindedly only to see a smear of red on his fingers.

"This looks bad," he deadpanned, rubbing some more at his face with the back of his hand.

"You think? Should've gone to the hospital just now, I'm calling for help –"

"I'm just going to the bathroom to wash this off –"

Tony suddenly slumped forward. Steve braced him by both elbows before he hit the floor. He didn't response when Steve called his name, read his pulse, called for the ambulance and held him tight in that dimmed living room. He welcomed this, maybe this would be more permanent – no Hulk to the rescue at least. Maybe this was salvation.

Alas, it was not to be. Pain nowadays was a constant in his waking moments and he had plenty of that to go around right now, so hurray for still being alive. It wasn't as painful as he was accustomed to, still the blunt aches all over told him he was probably under some sort of medication. Painkillers. And then he heard the steady _beep, beep_ of that blasted heart monitor. Hospital, most definitely the hospital. Now who brought him to a _hospital_? Tony wasn't all against the medical professionals of course, bless their souls, and he was _not_ afraid of needles, catheters (though thoroughly unpleasant), whatever else people could think of. Dad would beat him into next Sunday if he were. No, he had better reasons to steer clear of people with stethoscopes. One, his chest was a medical miracle. Two, he had a clause in his will that says something like: if any medical procedure is done on me when I'm unable to make informed decisions at the time of the procedure, then on pain of death I will take legal actions and sue/incarcerate your thieving ass. Because nobody's going to stop trying to steal the arc reactor technology, let's be realistic. So why, pray tell, was he in a _hospital_?

"Hey, you with me now?"

Captain Righteous. Of course.

"Steve…"

God, how long was he out? His voice sounded like sandpapers rubbing against each other. He finally dared to creak an eye open, take in the sterile surroundings and a positively worried Steve Rogers hovering on the left side of his bed.

"It's OK, you're at the hospital."

"I know that," Tony quipped blearily. "I was under the impression that no sane doctors were going to take me in."

The bed railings rattled as Steve leaned on them. "Right. That. You scared a few nurses with that will of yours."

"Charming, right?"

"My name is on the appendix. So I told them to go ahead, but they made me watch the entire procedure instead."

Oh yes, the _appendix_. Tony regularly updated the appendix to include names of trusted comrades and friends who were most likely to be with him when he needed to seek medical attention. Steve's name was not a recent addition.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. Have to keep this safe from grubby paws," Tony said as he tapped lightly on his arc reactor.

"I understand. First time I heard about this thing though."

"Never had the occasion to bring it up."

Steve smiled. Relieved, Tony thought, which was good because he felt fine, and he didn't want a broody hulking Captain America for company anyway. When his forehead pinched, Tony knew his misery was far from over.

"Steve, I know what you're going to say, but how about we save this for another day?"

"Blunt force trauma to the retroperitoneal abdomen and thoracic region," Steve started reading off a clip pad hanging from the bed. "Presentations of hypovolemia, gastrointestinal haemorrhage. Cracked ribs? Contusions to several organs – you know what, I'm going to stop here," and he released the clip board so it swung forlornly between them, "because I'm a lot more interested in knowing when you'll stop playing hero and admit you need help.

"You don't stop caring for a team mate – or a friend for that matter, after you clock out of work, Tony."

He never doubted the earnestness of their friendship. Never doubted Steve would look at him any lesser if he decided to ask for a favour.

"Don't beat yourself up like that. And you're probably thinking I'm making up excuses, but I honestly didn't feel anymore worse than any other day."

"Any other day?" Steve repeated faintly.

"Well, this," he tapped at the arc reactor again, "isn't the comfiest thing to have lodged in your chest. To put it mildly."

Steve nodded, not probing anymore. Respect for another man's privacy. Well thank God for that, because Tony didn't feel like reciting his long list of ailments – it'd make them _both_ cringe – and that would feel like being violated all over again. Steve sat back in his rather uncomfortable looking plastic chair.

"Just so it sticks, I got your back. Next time –"

"Rogers, Rogers."

Must've been a stale one because Steve was obviously rolling his eyes. How uncharacteristic. The Stark-ness must've been rubbing off on him.

"So I hope we're done feeling our feelings, because God help me, if you ask me to lay my head on your shoulders, slow dance maybe after every fight, I'll start using your shield as a salad bowl."

Steve looked out of the window, a silly boyish grin on his face. Amidst the lull of Ibuprofen-induced sleep, Tony decided leaning on someone else isn't really a trait of weakness at all, if anything, the complete opposite, because he'd just realised how much courage it takes to trust someone with his own fragility. And who would've guessed that the mere company of a friend was all it takes to make this hurt so much more bearable.


	3. Chapter 3

When Tony invited them to bunk over – he hinted that it could be made a permanent arrangement if they wanted, which saw a mini-migration of superheroes with duffel bags into the same radius – he said the Tower wasn't a prison. No curfews, no special house rules whatsoever, because he assumed everybody knew how to behave like normal, sane being in his not-so-humble abode. Natasha and Clint were a bit wary about JARVIS at first considering that the omnipresent voice always responded to their prompts seamlessly, as if he had been there beside them all along. Tony told them not to worry about it because even if JARVIS had all the information on his server, he wasn't coded to act malevolently on it. Kind of like using Google; it tracks your movements, learns your preferences, and then come up with an algorithm to serve you better. Tony then grinned ear to ear, short of giving the Avengers two thumb ups and Natasha's eyes rolled so far back she looked like Storm.

Anyway, the point being, nobody was bound by any rules for the entirety of them taking up residence in the Tower. That means, if someone were to go somewhere for two days straight, being highly functional adults, that shouldn't be a problem at all.

So when Tony Stark left for work on Monday morning but still hadn't returned home by Wednesday evening, nobody raised any alarm. When he was still absent from Friday's breakfast, Clint asked if Tony was away on SI's business and that was about it. The most they did was turned to Steve for enlightenment but even the Captain himself shook his head. By Sunday morning, Steve finally asked JARVIS, "What's his coordinates?"

"I have been tracking Sir's whereabouts ever since he left the Tower. I assure you Captain, that Sir is still alive and well."

"Then why isn't he back yet?" Steve asked testily as he paced the front of his bedroom.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I am unable to answer that."

"So at least let me know where he is."

"I'm sorry, Captain, I cannot answer."

Since JARVIS refused to provide anything useful no matter how Steve paraphrased his questions, he resorted to more pacing as he stewed over it when his phone rang in his pocket. One glance at the caller's ID and he swiped it so hard the screen almost cracked.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Steve…"

"You couldn't have dropped us a note?"

"God… Steve, can you come?"

Steve's forehead pinched. Now he began to hear the misery underlying Tony's somewhat distant voice, and the heavy breathing that accompanied the pauses between words.

"OK, where are you?"

The cab ride lasted just 20 minutes from the Tower's lobby. The fact that Tony was just hiding under their nose for the past week yet didn't think it was important to check in with the team at all was not consoling. After paying his tab, Steve slammed the cab's door a bit too roughly the hinge almost come apart as he simmered at the main entrance of a rather sleazy looking motel. Two ladies looking barely legal stood coyly by the door. As Steve approached, they almost as good as pounced on him, taking him by the arms.

"Ma'am, excuse me. This isn't a good time –"

"Oh, then when is?" the blonde one purred. She tossed her curls over her shoulder and leaned purposely into Steve. "Anytime that's good for you is good for me."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I need to go right _now._ Would you –"

"Grouchy, grouchy – ooh."

Steve somehow managed to pry those manicured hands from his biceps. With a curt, impatient nod he hurried through the door. The whiff of old cigar and brandy hit him in an instant and he almost back stepped into the open again for clean air. The man at the register cocked his head up when Steve came into the vicinity and he eyed the super soldier with mild interest. Guess Steve was looking far too wholesome for the establishment.

"Morning, Sir," Steve greeted as he rested his forearm against the counter. "I'm looking for Tony Stark. He's a friend."

"I'll bet," the man quipped under his breath. He fumbled around the logbook, ran a bony finger down a column and finally said, "Nope. No Tony Starks around here. You wanna try another name?" And he snorted at the little joke.

Steve didn't find that all amusing. "What other names? He's Tony Stark."

"And I'm Steve Rogers. Look, I've worked here for thirteen years. I'm tellin' ya, multibillionaires just don't swing by places like this."

"Fine." Aliases. Someone really didn't want to be found out. "Try Edwin Jarvis."

Steve didn't think it would work, just something that came up top of his head. Tony was far too smart to leave flimsy trails like that. Mutual acquaintances, really? But at this point Steve was ready to try anything. If he had to run through every single one on the friendship list to get to Tony, he would. And holy cow, Edwin Jarvis scored a hit.

"Room 14. That's three doors down the hallway. Keep the voices down, if you fellas don't mind."

Steve muttered a thanks and started hunting for Room 14. He calmed himself forcibly because with the storm brewing in his brain right now, he wasn't sure he could restrain himself from full-on screaming at Tony when he finally found him. He'd expected more of his team mate. They were all on-call for SHIELD this month; Steve expected _everyone_ to be battle ready at a moment's notice if and when the order come through. The Avengers couldn't fight with Tony down, now their only flyer since Thor was still away in Asgard sorting out the mess that was Loki. He just couldn't justify this blatant show of irresponsibility and it translated to him pounding on the door so hard it (and the neighbouring room's one) rattled in its frame.

"Tony, open the door dammit! I swear I'll break it down –"

The door opened unexpectedly that Steve's next pound was going straight into the other man's nose. His first response was to say sorry for threatening forced entry, but then he remembered he was supposed to be angry at _Iron Man_ , but all his pent-up anger nonetheless evaporated at the sight of Tony's flushed skin, dark ringlets around his eyes and conspicuous tremors raking his unkempt form. His dress shirt looked damped and crumpled like he'd fallen asleep in it and sweated a bucket over the night. He swayed where he stood and Steve steadied him by the arms.

"You look terrible. What happened?"

"Haha, Cap. So good to see you. Come on in!"

Tony turned around to stumble into his room. Steve followed, but not before shooting a furtive glance at the man behind the counter. Said man's head did a violent jerk towards the computer screen as if the guestbook was the most interesting article he'd ever seen. Steve sighed and closed the door with a smart tap behind him.

Tony had sunk into his bed, cradling his head in his hands. Saying the whole place was a pile of mess was an understatement, it looked more like he'd set a pack of wild dogs loose for the night with meat-bait hidden in the closet. The bedsheet lay in an ugly heap on the floor, furniture misplaced – chairs weren't supposed to be lying upside down at the far corner of the room – shards of glass near the window and the mirror was not a mirror anymore, just a black piece of wood. As Tony massaged his forehead forcefully, Steve noticed the bloodied knuckles and dried bloodstains on the cuffs of his shirt.

He knelt before the billionaire, taking him by the wrists gently, all manner of wrath completely gone.

"I got you, all right? I'm taking you home, and we'll work everything out later."

"Whoever said there's a problem?" Tony wrenched his hand meekly from Steve and returned to cradling his head.

Steve pulled the upturned chair from the corner, carefully swiping stray glass dust from it and sat down directly in front of Tony. He leaned forward, his hand clasped and fingers intertwined.

"I'm not leaving you alone, Tony."

He thought he heard a slurred "Might as well" and in the next second Tony lifted his head with seemingly huge amount of effort. There was an astonishing volume of clarity in his eyes but when he spoke, Steve cringed at the rawness of his voice.

"How was it like? When you woke up after… so long?"

It sure didn't feel like "so long" to him. At first there was ice, and pain, and then numbness washed over him as the undercurrent of the Artic Sea pulled him lower and lower. Then there was light. Warmth. The stupid radio playing the ball game from 3 years before, and the lady agent, so brave, who stood her ground as he gained on her, demanding the truth of his current whereabouts. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd thrown two men into the walls and ran all the way out, out to modern New York now an unfamiliar territory.

"God, it was strange," Steve replied slowly. "We tried to sort things out. Nick had a debrief package sent down to my room after the whole fiasco. There was confusion. Lots of questions. SHIELD worked with me for two months, getting me back on track. It was a soldier life again until they set me up with my own place. Of course they sent Agent Carter undercover to babysit me, but I wasn't supposed to know that."

Steve paused, regarded Tony pointedly again. He was back to kneading his temples, his eyes trailing the carpet, a veil of terror behind them.

Steve continued, "They sent me a laptop with some old propaganda tapes – video clips, I mean. And the updated status of people from the time. Good men whom I've fought with in the war. All dead."

He thought of Bucky. His body wasn't ever discovered apparently, so his status was merely documented as "unknown", before it was updated some twenty years ago as "assumed deceased". Steve felt a surge of anger when he saw that. Bucky deserved better. A closure. Acknowledgement for all the heroic deeds he'd done when in service. Not like this, a single record forgotten, stashed somewhere in a database.

"My first love – we were gonna go on a date. A dance."

A small smile crept on Steve's face. The edge of Tony's lips curled up, but it looked sadder than anything as if he too was sympathising with all that could've been but never did for Steve.

"She's still around. She's still… she's back in England. I miss her. But I can't do this to her.

"The next profile I picked up was Howard's."

Tony visibly stiffened at the name. Steve's attention flicked back to the billionaire, noticing the tension in his shoulders.

"I got to say, that's irony at its best. Your father had absolute trust in the machines he built. Can't imagine a car accident actually did him in. I'm sorry for your loss, Tony. Howard was a good friend of mine, a good man –"

"Bet he is, Cap."

Tony jolted off the bed and strode to the window. He glared at the coffee table like it'd offended him so much so he looked like upending it now was a good idea now that it was within striking distance. Steve decided that was his cue to steer the topic away from the elder Stark.

"Your profile was next. They gave me your current phone number and address. You won't believe this, but I actually took the train down to the Stark Tower."

"Yeah?" Tony's cracked voice interjected, a note of amusement behind it. He turned to face Steve fully. "I thought the first time I saw you was on the Helicarrier."

"It was. I didn't make the call, or the visit."

"Right. Were you skulking at a corner café somewhere, hoping you'd bump into me or something?"

Steve chuckled.

"Right, don't answer that."

"I lost everything in that crash, but, if I get to come back then I better make this count."

"Make this count… make this count? Make this count?"

Tony was getting more and more agitated as he paced the expanse of the room, getting louder as he chanted those words like they were the only thing grounding him to sanity. Steve wasn't at all surprised when the coffee table finally flew into the wall. Tony heaved, hunched as he braced his knees.

"Sorry," he strained out, crumpling to the floor in a miserable heap. "I got a brother, Steve."

"What?"

"A brother," he repeated. He closed his eyes tiredly, resigned, as if repeating the words made this whole situation seemed more real. Was that why he more than thrashed this room? How long had he known this? Tony didn't look like he'd accepted the fact, like it hadn't sunk in, what more _happy_ aboutit.

"I was going through some of Dad's old stuff. Thought of binning whatever crap still kept in there, wanted to make more room for the lab. Hell I don't even know how those things got into the mansion in the first place. I looked through the family records. And I found him.

"He's kept hidden all these long years in a hospice, funded by Mom's Foundation. I don't know how I missed it, I sign the yearly expenditure report."

"OK. That's good, right? I mean, I've never had a brother, but I can't imagine it to be a bad thing."

Tony grimaced, but he quickly hid it behind his hands again.

"No, he's in a pretty bad shape. He's been paralysed all his life, that's some 40 odd years. On life support. It's a long story, almost like science fiction. I still find it unbelievable."

"You've seen him?" Steve's curiosity piqued. He'd only realised a second too late that he might've overstepped the line and his lips pursed. This was Stark family business, private affairs. Steve wasn't going to poke his nose into it.

"I saw him last week. Couldn't help myself. He knows who I am. Turns out Mom and Dad used to visit him, spoke to him about me. Sure sounds like an awesome family trip 'cause I don't know I'd a fucking brother hidden somewhere, you'd think _someone_ might've wanted to clue me in on the agenda!"

He looked like he wanted to fling something again. Steve was by his side in an instant, resting a reassuring hand over his shoulders. Fettered fury still churned behind his dark eyes, but at least he wasn't breaking something else.

"What am I supposed to do?" he finally asked, a mere whisper ghosting his dry lips. "This isn't right… God, this is so messed up. I've got to set things right. I've got to give this all back to him." He gripped Steve's biceps, a weak grasp as though seeking reaffirmation for his pronouncement. "I'm giving it back. He's been kept away –"

"Tony, you're not making any _sense_ –"

" _He's the real son of Howard and Maria Stark._ I'm… _not_."

Steve might've had this foolish gape on his face, because when Tony took one look at him, he laughed mirthlessly and flopped even more miserably on the floor.

"Yeah. News flash. Tony Not-Stark. That's gonna look awesome on the papers tomorrow." He then turned his face away and spoke in rapid undertones. Steve was starting to feel a bit fearful for his lucidity. "But stock's gonna fall… 20, tops, maybe. God, they're gonna want to see him, that can't – but he'll be fine…"

"Stop, Tony. Look at me."

Steve figured maybe that was why Tony chose to hide himself in this god forsaken hell hole – away from everything he'd grown up knowing and believing. But screw this all, because Tony wasn't going to be defined by all the monies and reputation he'd inherited from Howard. He'd had them all taken from him before; his suit, his wealth, his company. Knocked down to the ground, stripped to his very bones but he never stopped _getting up_. This was nothing more than a dent in the suit. Tony was going to fix it. Build something new. Something better.

"I know, Steve. I know what you're thinking, but believe me, it's not all that simple."

Tony rearranged his feet under him. Steve held him tighter, but he shrugged it off and rose to his feet, adamant to put more distance between them. His knees gave way half-way through his ascend and he sagged unceremoniously onto Steve.

"OK, we can talk later. I'm taking you home _now_ , we all miss you –"

"No. No, I got to do this _now._ Don't you understand? I've taken… _so much_."

Then his shoulders drooped. He shook, and Steve tightened his hold on the other, pulling him closer. And that was when Tony lost it. His face felt hot with tears falling and he couldn't get enough air as each sob racked his body.

"At first it was just white hot rage. He said someone was gonna come for him after he was born, so Dad hid him, erased his existence from the world. Too bad the birth of a Stark scion isn't exactly a page eight material. The entire country was celebrating. It was too late. So they brought me in."

Tony seemed to curl into himself. He fisted the front of Steve's shirt and started tugging lightly at it. Steve let him, but he felt the urge to remove them both from the environment. Get Tony somewhere safer, warmer. Friendlier. Somewhere that reminded him how much he meant to the rest of them, Stark or not. Steve still had trouble wrapping his head around the news but this much was certain, that whatever Tony learned from the hospice, it would never change the man he was inside.

"I am a decoy for Arno Stark. Nothing more. Maybe that's why Dad was never happy with me. I was never his to begin with."

He choked, and his upper body rattled with the force. There was a sudden gush of wetness and hotness on the front of Steve's chest. Given any other day he would've offered his handkerchief rather than sacrificing his shirt for snots and tears, but Tony didn't need reminding of how embarrassing this whole thing looked. He canned it, and rubbed soothing circles on the billionaire's back.

When Tony pulled back, his grip in Steve's shirt yielding, he gasped, "Oh… oh no…"

"Don't worry about it –"

"No, Steve, it's –"

Then he started hacking. Tremors returned to his hands. Steve frowned and looked down and realised it wasn't just snot and tear stains soiling his shirt.

Blood. Bright red blood blossoming horrifyingly on a spot near his breast pocket. More was running down Tony's chin; he was stemming them with both hands futilely as dribbles of bile and blood escaped between his fingers with each cough. He was turning paler than paper and there was a swoon to his posture.

Steve might've cursed. He wasn't sure, maybe he did, but Tony didn't admonish. He wasn't _OK,_ he was heaving fucking blood, how was any of this fine – Steve hooked two strong arms under Tony's knees and armpits and _ran._ He ran pass the counter, pass the man sitting behind it who'd started yelling at him about something but promptly shut up when he saw the blood between the two.

"I'll return after this for the bill," Steve promised before dashing madly down the pavement.

The one good thing that'd gone right this morning was how he managed to flag a cab in mere minutes. Even then Steve was half-expecting it to just drive away; he didn't think people would feel particularly inclined to ferry two bloody guys in the backseat at peak hours. One did. Sure didn't help make the ride any less difficult though. It felt like it wasn't going fast enough, but then again _nothing_ was going to be fast enough when there was a not-responsive Tony Stark leaning boneless against him.

The drive dredged on until they reached emergency, and then it was all a flurry – he'd lowered Tony, still unconscious, on the gurney and watched him wheeled into a room. A nurse asked Steve to fill in some forms when finally all that was left to do was wait.

Bruce was the first, and only other visitor aside from Steve; before the medic wheeled a patched-up-Tony into a private suite, Steve managed to text the Avengers on the updated status of their missing team mate. Clint and Natasha had yet to reply while Bruce promised to be there in half an hour. Turned out that Hawkeye and the Widow were dispatched to Romania on a no-notice assignment, leaving them both the only immediate guardians of Tony.

While Steve sat motionless in the armchair, Bruce spoke to the doctors and studied the clipboard dangling from the bed. He explained the situation as best he could to Steve; it was gastric ulcer gone out of control because Tony wasn't taking care of it. Bottom line was Tony was going to be fine, but that didn't mean Steve was going to let this slide. He'd carried Tony to the medic one too many times, all of which cases could've been avoided if he'd cared to pay more attention to himself. He wanted Tony to wake up _this very moment_ so he could lay it all into the man, but a miniscule part of him illogically wanted to just wait until _never._

Tony started showing signs of gaining awareness three hours after losing it. At first it was a vague twitch of his index finger, and then it was a scratchy groan like he was actually _annoyed_ to find himself waking up to the increasingly familiar scent of bleach and white-washed ceiling.

"Steve?" he croaked.

This time, Steve didn't hover above him in concern. This time, Steve stood stonily by the bed, his blue eyes hard and inscrutable. He didn't acknowledge the call for his name, but he did fold his arm across his chest and look at a point around Tony's ear.

"You're mad," Tony tried again. He winced, and the hand that was not intubated crept closer to his stomach. "OK, definitely mad. I'm sorry, all right? For messing up. Come on, stop ignoring me."

"I don't know what else to do with you, Tony. Honestly."

"You've done enough, Cap. Thanks for saving my ass again. Pardon the language."

"I don't know how to _get through_ to you. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

That was the proverbial last straw that broke the camel's back. Steve knew better, this should wait until Tony got better. But there he went running his mouth, and maybe it was a combination of painkillers and lack of sleep, because Tony was beyond pissed by now even when he looked like death warmed over.

"I'm trying my best, aren't I? Or is this me screwing up so bad again that – all my _life,_ I'm doing all I can to redeem myself –"

"No, Tony! This is exactly what I mean! You don't have to keep putting yourself down, thinking that you're, what, unworthy? I don't know how to get you to understand that all these self-sacrificial, self-harm crap, it's eating you up. It's eating _us_ up. Blood isn't the only thing that defines you. So what if your name is half real? All these, what we share, what I know of you, _these are real._ "

They stared at each other. Steve looked like he was inches away from punching Tony stupid and adding more reasons to keeping him warded. If Tony could sink lower into his mattress he would. He guessed all these touchy feely shit actually did something because the way Steve was looking at him so earnestly in the eye, he thought maybe he did deserve some liberation after all. He didn't know for sure if he did, but Steve thought he did, and he trusted Steve.

So he said simply, "OK."

"OK?"

"OK. I hear you, Steve."

"Right, because if I have to haul your ass into a hospital one more time, I –"

"Hey, you're up. How're you feeling?" Bruce had just walked in, one hand on the knob while the other a cup of coffee.

Steve hung around in the background as they spoke in soft voices, with Bruce reassuring the other that the lab was fine, and everyone was fine, but deeply missing Tony and had made him promise to come home. The reserved man he was, Bruce didn't ask too many questions, didn't pry and Tony didn't elaborate, so that was that. By 8.30 p.m. a nurse came in to usher all his visitors off. Steve didn't linger long; after Bruce exited, he casted one last look at Tony.

There were no hugs, no cheers, no words traded between them, but before Steve took another step away Tony reached out for his wrist. He held the Captain momentarily, firm while it lasted.

He'd said, "Thank you."


End file.
